


Days of Open Hand (Sekrit Santa 2020)

by GTRWTW



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27956216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW
Summary: It's Christmas 2015, and Cormoran is taking Robin on a secret day out.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 27
Kudos: 45
Collections: Denmark Street Discord Sekrit Santa 2020





	1. Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChillyHollow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillyHollow/gifts).



**Solitude stands by the window /** **She turns** **her head as I walk in the room**

Suzanne Vega,  _ Solitude Standing _

  
  


Robin awoke abruptly and in a state of minor confusion, convinced she had set her alarm the night before. She felt the emptiness of mornings, these days; the other side of the bed was cold. Stretching for her phone on the bedside table, she checked it and realised that her subconscious had pre-empted the alarm by ten minutes. As the fog of sleep lifted and she realised the date, Robin swung her legs towards the ground and leapt up like a giddy child; today was the day. She headed for the shower.

Returning to her bedroom half an hour later to dry her hair, Robin recalled the message that had her so excited. Sent the previous weekend, it had contained the bare minimum of information necessary, and if the secrecy had been intended to frustrate her, it had worked magnificently. 

**I will pick you up at 10:30am next Saturday, 5th December. Wear flat shoes and something warm. Strike x**

It didn't help that the sender had refused to elaborate one tiny degree in the week that had passed since sending the message. Robin had tried pleading, bargaining, whipping questions at him when he would least expect it; still Strike had said nothing, responding to all her attempts with the same self-conscious smile and a shake of his head. Robin had to admit, however, that the smile itself was enough of a consolation prize.

Max had gone to stay with his boyfriend the previous evening, and so Robin took Wolfgang for a quick walk around the block in the chilly morning light, her scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, one gloved hand grasping the lead, the other tucked firmly into her pocket. The temperature became milder, though, as she walked; the shy sun broke through the dense cloud and Robin loosened her scarf. As she returned to her front door, she saw a hulking figure in a black overcoat standing by the stone steps. The figure turned as she approached.

"Morning," said Strike. Robin smiled and beckoned him to follow her inside, heart juddering with every step.

Inside her kitchen, Robin made breezy apologies while Strike waved them away, pointing out his earliness. Robin flung her scarf down on the counter but kept her coat on. She rushed around in something of a fluster, slamming cupboard doors too hard and walking into the dining table. It seemed too small a space for Strike's presence, even though he'd been here before; today he was bigger, more imposing. Robin concentrated on feeding Wolfgang and concealing her burgeoning excitement.

"We should get going," said Strike. "We've got a bit of a drive."

"All right," Robin replied, setting down the dog biscuits with a rattle. "I wish you'd tell me where we're going," she said plaintively. On cue, Strike's face broke into a smile, and his boyish expression endeared the secret plan to Robin all over again. 

"I'm saying nothing. Come on," said Strike, handing Robin her scarf. He led her back down the steps and out into the winter sunshine.


	2. Gift

**There's a woman on the outside /** **Looking inside, does she see me?**

Suzanne Vega,  _ Tom's Diner _

  
  


"Come on, just one clue?"

Strike grinned at Robin's obvious impatience. They left the BMW in a small car park on the edge of a sprawling industrial estate and began to walk through the frosty streets towards the warehouses. Strike had told Robin that they were less than five minutes from their destination, but still she badgered him to tell her. He was enjoying remaining tight-lipped, feeling her almost vibrating with nervous energy by his side.

They approached the largest of the buildings: a steel and concrete juggernaut that sported several large chequered flags and a sign bearing the words 'Red Letter Days'. Looking sideways at her puzzled face, Strike led Robin around the side of the building, a vast expanse of black tarmac revealing itself as they walked. A few seconds later, Robin's face showed shock and delight as the purpose of their trip became clear.

In front of them sat a shining blue McLaren 720S Spider. Strike handed Robin a scarlet envelope, smiling indulgently as she scrambled to rip it open. 

Inside was a Christmas card, featuring a cartoon robin wearing a Santa hat. Robin rolled her eyes at the common joke, but it didn't offend her; she vowed to herself that she would find a Christmas card for him that bore a giant, or a lightning bolt, however incongruous with Christmas the joke might be. She flipped open the card, and found two items inside: her driving licence, and a photocopy of her advanced driving qualification. 

"This is your Christmas present. I contacted Jonathan and he helped me out. I also nicked your purse, temporarily. I hope you don't mind," explained Strike.

"Oh my god, Cormoran," breathed Robin, her face shining with anticipation. "Of course I don't mind. This is one of the fastest convertibles there are!"

Strike enjoyed her awe; he felt absurdly grateful for the look of intense joy on her face as she looked at him, even if the emotion was only for the car. Strike opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the arrival of an obsequious-looking driving instructor with a buzz cut and a goatee.

"Not quite the fastest, I'm afraid, by a long shot," he drawled. He addressed Strike, as though Robin hadn't spoken. "The fastest convertible is the -"

"Bugatti Veyron," interjected Robin, "I know. But Hennessey are working on it." 

The instructor looked comically from Robin to Strike, his eyes flicking towards Robin's hand, where she was clutching her driving licence and the photocopied certificate. Robin watched, amused. She was used to this; people often mistook her correspondence for a man's, given her unisex name, and she figured that the instructor had seen the name 'Robin' on Strike's booking and had drawn the masculine conclusion.

"That's right," said Strike casually. "She's doing the driving."

The instructor's eyes narrowed for a split second, and Strike briefly considered telling him where he could shove his assumptions, but then the instructor launched into conversation with Robin as he led her into the building, which was primarily devoted to storage and was stacked to the rafters with helmets and harnesses. A gum-chewing receptionist sat at a desk made of half tyres, doodling on a notepad and looking utterly bored. Strike listened to the motoring chat, noting strange words and phrases like 'Venom' and 'V8' and what sounded like 'Koenigsegg'. Strike knew the bare bones of vehicle maintenance from his army days, but his scant knowledge had never spilt over into what he saw as many men's pointless habit of comparing stats on cars they would never drive. It seemed, however, that Robin had never lost her keen interest in the hobby that had got her out of her parents' house and onto a track.

Strike sat on a bench and watched Robin remove her coat to reveal the same cream sweater she had been wearing on the very first day they met. Allowing himself a few minutes' reminiscence, Strike reflected on the reason why he had so determinedly averted his eyes from it on that day. Desperate not to be pegged as the salacious, ogling boss, he had been careful not to allow any hint of attraction to permeate their working relationship.  _ Things are different now, _ he thought to himself.  _ She wouldn't mind me looking now. I know she wouldn't. _ Strike therefore watched Robin selecting equipment and strapping things to herself without any guilt. She suddenly turned to face him, and Strike's eyes swept helplessly down her body; he took in the racing overalls and the helmet under her arm, and tried not to display his arousal too obviously.


	3. Drive

**Even if I am in love with you / All this** **to say, what's it to you?**

Suzanne Vega,  _ Marlene on the Wall _

  
  


Robin listened with glee to the sound of the twin turbocharged engine behind her, sharp as broken glass. Having completed two fairly cautious laps, she had been given approval to push the car further. The instructor provided encouragement and support through the earpiece inside her helmet, and Robin shoved all other thoughts aside as she focused on building revs. The instructor's tinny voice shouted, "now!" and she planted her right foot, exhilaration rushing through her veins as the track disappeared underneath her.

Half an hour later, Robin found Strike still sitting on the bench he'd claimed when they'd first arrived. She felt silly wearing the racing suit, but Strike's heated look as she strolled over to him told her that she might not look as ridiculous as she had thought.

"Well?" Strike asked.

"I hit 160," replied Robin without preamble, her pride showing keenly on her delighted face. 

Strike laughed. "Only 160?" he teased, standing.

"The track doesn't have enough of a straight for more than that. I don't know if I could handle it anyway," she admitted. "That was  _ amazing _ ."

"I'm joking. I couldn't handle it at any speed. You're - it's pretty impressive," said Strike.

"Well, I need to go and get out of these," Robin gestured down her legs at the overalls.

"Damn," replied Strike.

They looked at each other; for a split second, awareness was swapped between them, so that they both knew exactly what the other was thinking. 

"I'll be back in two minutes," said Robin, and she walked as casually as she could back into the warehouse.

Back on the road, Strike in the driver's seat to allow Robin's adrenaline to pass, Robin tried to explain how the car had felt to drive. She had driven a supercar exactly once before. It had been a gift for her 25th birthday from her parents, who had known that their only daughter would soon be moving away from her home town, possibly forever. She remembered the yellow Lamborghini with fondness, and she remembered feeling even fonder of her parents for knowing her well enough to realise exactly the kind of thing she would have valued as a meaningful gift. Matthew had invariably given her designer toiletries, cuddly toys, and sometimes, jewellery. Robin compared her memory of the sapphire engagement ring with the memory of driving the McLaren, and found there was no contest.

"It was incredible. Thank you so much," said Robin, turning to face Strike as best she could in the BMW's narrow interior. He smiled at her, looking at the road ahead, and glancing sideways when circumstances allowed.

"Do you have plans for the rest of today?" 

"No. I didn't know how long this would take. Barclay's on Two Times though, and he'll probably want to report back later on," replied Robin.

"Well, I'd like to take you to lunch, if you want," said Strike. Incredibly, he was blushing. Robin's voice caught in her throat slightly as she spoke.

"I'd love that."


	4. Memory

**You and I are still alone / We skirt** **around the danger zone /** **And don't talk about it later**

Suzanne Vega,  _ Marlene on the Wall _

  
  


The restaurant was homely and intimate; it boasted circular tables with cream tablecloths, wooden chairs with pale blue seat cushions, and narrow glass vases with purple pansies. The detectives took two leather-bound menus and a table near the back. 

They had, undoubtedly, been for lunch before; countless pubs had provided comfortable rest stops for them to discuss their cases over a pint and a bowl of chips. This felt different. Strike had intended it to; he had specifically asked to take her to lunch, rather than simply making the suggestion of food, because he wanted there to be no doubt. He had chosen a restaurant, rather than a pub, to further make the distinction: he was confident of their mutual understanding that this was a date.

The previous year had been promising, but ultimately frustrating. Strike was fairly sure that he had cemented himself in Robin's affections on her thirtieth birthday, and again at the following night's group dinner. He had told her how beautiful he found her, and she had blushed prettily and thanked him self-consciously. Then his daring had run out, and he had left things in a strange state of potential that unfortunately hadn't been realised in the months since. Summer had passed, and he had taken Robin to the beach in St Mawes; she had met his Uncle Ted, and they had walked along castle walls and eaten hevva cake and spent a couple of evenings in the Victory, where they carefully avoided any talk of how the other looked, windswept and tipsy as they were.

Strike had wanted nothing more than to tell Robin: tell her that she was it; tell her that he held her in higher esteem than any woman he had ever or would ever meet. He had wanted to take her hands in his, pull her to her feet and feel her wonderful heart beating against his chest. He had restrained himself only by insisting that they had a long drive back to London the following morning, and that they should go to bed. They had finished their drinks and left, both aware that something strange had passed in the air between them.

But Strike knew that change was coming. Their relationship was blossoming into something that was pure joy. They spent many evenings together, and most of the working day; they had become steadily closer and thus proven to themselves, over and over again, that they could separate work and pleasure. Strike could no longer resist attempting to expand on the pleasurable aspect of the equation.

Having ordered, Strike and Robin settled into easy conversation, discussing driving, the weather, and the coming Christmas break. They had decided to close the agency for two full weeks, having worked at full capacity for months and feeling that everyone deserved the respite. 

"We're wrapping up most of them as we speak; Barclay's doing the last day on Two Times now, and Michelle got the documents from TOWIE yesterday," summarised Strike.

Robin laughed. "You managed to say TOWIE without grimacing," she joked.

"Yeah, well, I still think it's ridiculous."

"The show, or the nickname?"

"The show. From what you've told me about it, the nickname's perfect for the client. Anyway, she's done."

Still grinning, Robin took a sip of her tea. Strike watched her carefully. He didn't want to talk about work; he wanted the delighted, exhilarated look from the morning. He wanted to make his intentions clearer. He cleared his throat and drank some tea; paused, sipped again.

"Have you heard anything more about - Matthew's -" 

"Second divorce? No," said Robin archly. "I guess she couldn't put up with him either." 

"Shame," said Strike, smiling conspiratorially at her.

"I honestly don't care, Cormoran. They could live happily ever after for the next eighty years and I'd feel exactly the same as I do now."

"And how do you feel now?" asked Strike.

"A bit relieved, a bit frustrated at the time I wasted, but mostly indifferent," Robin mused. 

"That's a good way to think," Strike said softly. "I didn't deal with Charlotte's wedding well. It was a very sudden breakup, though. I guess," he said tentatively, "yours had been coming on for a while?"

Robin looked into his eyes, and Strike was afraid he'd overstepped. But she smiled sadly, and he suddenly wondered whether she was as indifferent to Matthew as she claimed.

"Yes, it had. Ever since - well, ever since I met you, I suppose. But especially since the wedding. We should never have got married," Robin admitted. "But I called you, from the Maldives -"

"Wha-"

The stuttered word was cut short by the arrival of a waitress bearing a niçoise salad and a steak and cheese panini, which she placed down on the table with a loud, singsong, "there you go!" She retreated into the kitchen, and Strike and Robin looked at each other, both consumed in memory.

They ate in silence for a while, until Strike deduced that Robin was not going to continue without prompting, and dropped the last quarter of his panini back onto his plate.

"What do you mean, you called me? I didn't get any calls from you after the wedding," he insisted. Robin took a deep breath, and laid down her fork.

"I didn't do it from my mobile. He was checking my phone."

Strike imagined, not for the first time, how it would feel to land the right hook he had been famed for, and watch Matthew crumple.

"I called you from the hotel reception. And - well," she hesitated.

Realisation hit Strike as he watched Robin's mortified face, and he remembered a one night stand, and a quick, playful grab for his phone.

"- another woman answered. And I thought, you must not -"

"Oh, fuck," muttered Strike.

"- and I know I had no right, I was on my honeymoon," said Robin, whose face was shining with tears now. "But it - it hurt me."

Strike wanted to put his head in his hands; he had made such mistakes. They both had. He settled for pushing his plate to one side and reaching boldly across the table, taking Robin's hand in both of his. 

"You hurt me when you married that twat, so we're about even," he joked. He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand.

Robin's eyes found Strike's, and she gazed at him with clear fondness. "Did I?" she asked softly.

"Are you kidding?" replied Strike incredulously. "You  _ married  _ him. He'd cheated on you, repeatedly, and treated you like shit. It wasn't just that I wanted you," he paused as he realised what he'd said, but found that he didn't regret it. It was time. "I was angry that you forgave him. I was angry that you went on your honeymoon. When you hugged me, at your wedding, I thought - well, never mind what I thought, but it was like it didn't matter."

Robin's gasp shot longing through Strike's heart, and he had thought he couldn't possibly long for her more; he willed her to say something about what he meant to her. He had wondered for so long whether it was possible for her to reciprocate his feelings; now that he was finding out, he was desperate for more information.

Robin squeezed gently, and Strike's gaze dropped to their connected hands, finding that he liked it more than he would have thought, given that they were in public. 

"It mattered to me," admitted Robin. "I couldn't believe you would… you know. After what you said to me. I was waiting for you to ask me to come with you."

Strike inhaled slowly. "Would you have come with me?" He felt that his entire life had been leading him to this point. He held his breath.

"Yes," said Robin.

"Fuck's sake," burst out Strike, and Robin laughed in surprise. The tension dissipated, and Strike felt as though he had finally taken a drink of cool water after a long drought. Robin's face looked exhilarated again, and he was ridiculously glad.

"Will you come with me now?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," repeated Robin.

Strike could hardly concentrate on the minutiae of gathering their things and handing cash to the hovering waitress. Strike told the waitress to keep the change, and reached for Robin again. She took his hand, and together they left the cosy restaurant and stepped out into the chilly December afternoon.

They strolled back to the car with careful slowness that might, without context, have been mistaken for casualness. Robin reached the BMW slightly ahead of Strike, and she turned to face him head on, blocking his entry.

"So, are we done hurting each other, then?" asked Robin.

Strike smiled. "I'd say we are."

Robin took a step closer, and then took the lapels of his overcoat in both her hands. Both of them moved in tandem; their bodies surged together, and then they were meltingly, soulfully kissing, pressed up against the car door, as a fluttering of snow began to drift to the ground around them. 


	5. Update

**I am skipping on the sidewalk /** **I am thrown against the sky**

Suzanne Vega,  _ Small Blue Thing _

  
  


Robin sat bolt upright, fumbling for her phone. It had rung four times in the last hour, and its loud interruptions had irritated her. She checked the time: 4:45pm. The figure beside her rolled to face her, grabbing her hips and pulling her so that she sat astride him. 

"Ignore it," he said. She was tempted.

"It's Barclay," she replied. "He wants to check in about Two Times, remember?"

Robin sighed, and answered the phone. She raised her finger to her lips, holding it there in warning as she spoke.

"Hi, Barclay."

"There ye are! Thought ye were workin' today. Are ye on strike, or wut?" he joked.

"Uh…" Robin's face turned red, and Strike threw his head back into the pillow, laughing silently.

"Text me your report, and I'll call you back later, Barclay," said Robin, and she ended the call and threw the phone aside, laughing. "You nearly bloody well made me laugh!" she exclaimed, her hands on Strike's chest. She tried and failed to keep an exasperated expression on her face; her pure joy betrayed her.

"Well, at least he can't walk in this time," answered Strike, and he pulled her down to plant more kisses on her smiling mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Set in 2015 so the car stats were correct at the time, although not any more!


End file.
